


The Persistent Silence and the Outstretched Arms

by misanthropyray



Series: Hollow Hands Cling [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Established Relationship, M/M, Murder, Non Consensual, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: "John breaks up with Sherlock and moves out of Baker Street.<br/>Hurt, angry, and heartbroken, Sherlock implicates him in a murder."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed for me by the oh-so-wonderful thisprettywren and gelishan.
> 
> I think this turned out a bit darker than the prompt intended.

John’s legs protested as he climbed the stairs to the flat. The dull ache of being on his feet all day, sharpening into needles as they reluctantly carried his weight up the steps. Today some git at Channel 4 Morning News had decided to run a scaremongering report on West Nile, and the inevitable wave of hypochondriacs had continued for most of the day, on top of the usual cough and cold patients. He hadn’t managed to leave the surgery until three hours after his shift had finished.

John paused before unlocking the door, rolling the apprehension out of his shoulders and savouring the quiet sanctuary of the hallway for a moment. When he stepped inside, Sherlock was pacing though the lounge, coat half on and dangling from one arm, flaring out behind him in the wake of his movement. He bounced his mobile excitedly in one hand.

“John! Finally! Lestrade just called; a double murder in Kensal Green and he wants us there.”

“He wants you there.” John, on the other hand, wanted to sit down.

“I can’t do it without you. I need an assistant.” Sherlock caught John’s wrist before he reached the chair and pulled their bodies together. John felt him slowly inhale and push his chest against John’s ribs, edging him backwards a fraction; not enough for him to become unbalanced or step away, just a quiet assertion of dominance. A foot slid between John’s and edged his feet apart. He recognised this for what it was, though; an appeal. Sherlock had always wanted John to want it like he does; the thrill and the physicality of the chase, the rush of putting a person behind bars, to capture them and control them like a pinned butterfly. But it wasn’t the same for John.

He could feel Sherlock staring down at him, eyes narrowed and intense. His fingers squeezed tighter around John’s wrist, nails biting into the skin. John forced himself not to flinch at the pain; Sherlock was already anticipating the game, had slipped into his role as hunter, and John must show no weakness. This was a test; their entire relationship was just that, a series of tests. Tests of strength, tests of dominance; their own private battlefield, John Watson had simply moved from one war to another.

Studying him closely, Sherlock dipped his head until his lips met John’s ear, dark hair brushing lightly against his face, and whispered a barely audible, “please.” His breath was warm and close down John’s neck. Intimate, even now.

John would have jerked back, except Sherlock had manoeuvred them so that pulling back would break his wrist. “I’m tired,” he said instead. “I have a big appraisal at work tomorrow and I need to read through a mountain of paperwork before I can even think about going to bed. No, Sherlock, not tonight.”

“An hour. That’s all I ask, John.” His brow furrowed and softened in an instant, eyes suddenly gentle. John liked to think he could see past Sherlock’s act, that artificial fascia that projected shallow facsimiles of learned emotions. He liked to hope that at least a small fraction of that casually feigned feeling was genuine. And that hope was getting in his way now: it had been a mistake to make eye contact with him.

He was too tired to fight, he decided with a sigh. Any misguided attempts to assert control now would have repercussions later on and John’s body was complaining loudly enough without any outside assistance. He dipped his head in acquiescence.

“Forty-five minutes, and I’m getting a cab with or without you.” His wrist dropped back to his side, stinging and sore; a memento of his own resignation.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, as if to restore their circulation. “Plenty of time! Let’s go.” He shrugged his coat the rest of the way on and dashed from the flat, leaving John to turn the lights off and close the door behind them.

* * *

The cemetery stretched out in front of him, visible within the cocoon of artificial light and quickly dissolving into the inky blackness beyond. He was distracted by the icy night nipping at his skin and the accompanying shivers jittering out to his extremities. John leaned against the police car, wrapping his arms around himself and looking in at the small huddle of people from the sidelines.

The police lights hit the headstones and casting harsh shadows which criss-crossed up the gravelled path. He checked his battered wristwatch again. They’d been there 42 minutes already. He scratched at the fraying leather strap.

He shouldn’t have left the flat at all. He was here to play the obedient assistant, to watch in awe and praise Sherlock as he wowed the police officers. He was there to pass the time (Sherlock’s) and prove a point (also Sherlock’s); removing himself from the scene would be missing the point in rather spectacular fashion, in Sherlock’s view. Now he would be angry when John left, boiling under his nonchalant and focused exterior. Genius needs an audience, after all.

He thought wistfully about his chair and the burning heat of a cup of tea, and he pushed himself off of the police car.

“They worked in the same place; possibly a nightclub, they were dancers or escorts of some kind...”

“Sherlock, I’m off, yeah?” Sherlock didn’t look over at him or reply, just flicked a single gloved hand towards him before bringing it back to weave and dance over the bodies in front of him, shaking his head the way he always did while operating the problem-solving cogs in his brain.

For a moment John paused, biting his lip in disbelief, before shaking himself out of it and leaving to hunt down a taxi.

He stood in the sickly yellow glow of a streetlight, picking at the curling paint of the old cemetery railings whilst casting his eyes up and down the quiet street for any signs of a cab.

He knew for certain that no one else would have seen it. Of all the witnesses silently watching, not one of them would be aware of the festering anger inside Sherlock. An audience wasn’t the same as a crowd. Sherlock didn’t care about people, dead or alive: people didn’t matter to him; they were parts of the equation, inanimate puzzle pieces. Tools to be used and manipulated and discarded. No, Sherlock didn’t care about people, but he did care about John, in his way. He wanted him there by his side, to bask in his intellect.

His life’s work, all the people whose lives he’s saved and all the criminals he’d put away, it wasn’t for the police. It wasn’t for the safety of the general public or the greater good. It was something Sherlock did for himself, to keep his brain active and alive and to keep it from collapsing in on itself. And now for John too.

The second written warning at work had been an early indication that their relationship couldn’t keep up that pace indefinitely; you can only fall asleep at your desk so many times and expect to keep your job. But the time he really realised the change in his life had come later. Sherlock had been perfectly still on the sofa for nearly two days. He was working on a case, and as the legwork was being adequately handled by the police, all that needed to be done was to tie the remaining facts into a coherent timeline. This was proving much trickier than anyone had anticipated, hence the silence. It was the weekend, and John wanted to use his rare free time to go out and do something. _Anything._

He picked up his mobile. Scrolling through the contacts, there was no one there who he could feasibly invite for a swift half at the local pub. He’d ignored many of them outright. Among those he hadn’t, some he’d cancelled on at the last minute, others he’d abandoned halfway through the first pint to chase after a case; he hadn’t heard from any of them in months.

The only person he’d spent any time with in the last year was lying in a near catatonic state on the sofa.

Things needed to change.

* * *

 

John didn’t know what the time was when he felt Sherlock roll into bed beside him. Sherlock pressed himself against John’s back, the warmth of his skin seeping through his thin t-shirt and coaxing him back to consciousness.

 _Must have solved the case, then._

John let out a murmur of acknowledgement before settling into the embrace and trying to get back to sleep. The hand that crept up and under his t-shirt was cold, scattering prickling goose bumps across his flesh.

Slow and uncoordinated, he reached for the inquisitive hand, lacing Sherlock’s fingers with his own and setting them back on his stomach with a sigh; the silent question and answer.

But this time, the answer wasn’t good enough. _‘Wrong,’_ he could hear in his head.

Clamping John’s fingers between his own, Sherlock led their hands into John’s shorts, stroking and coaxing him into arousal while pushing his own hardness against John’s thigh.

When the evidence was bagged and the handcuffs closed around guilty wrists, it was always like this. John realised that he’d been hoping that the evening’s events would be more challenging, maybe stretching out to a few days, giving him some much needed rest.

In the times when they both felt it, when the burning need was sparking and palpable between them, it was almost overwhelming. They would lie afterwards (in bed, on the floor, on the sofa), drunk on an endorphin high and simply _being_. They could stay there for hours in comfortable silence, touching and kissing and luxuriating in basic human contact; there was no struggle for dominance, just the tender feel of skin on skin.

When the levels tipped out of balance, things got more complicated.

John shifted to face him, to protest against the disturbance to his much needed rest, but as soon as his face was turned, Sherlock was there with teeth and tongue in desperate exploration. Clearly the thrill of the chase was still alive in his veins as he clawed and scratched at John’s skin.

“Sherlock, I... Sherlock!”

“It’s fine, you can apologise later.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s face and lifted it from where he was biting a line down John’s neck, bringing them eye to eye in the translucent darkness. “Apologise for what, exactly?” John growled, anger rising. Sherlock smiled, narrowing his eyes and pushed him onto his back with a strong, controlling hand, climbing over his still sleep-heavy frame.

“For leaving me.” He placed a kiss on the hollow of John’s throat. “For not telling me I’m fantastic,” moving lower and pressing his lips against the dip beneath his sternum, “or brilliant.”

“Sherlock, I’m going to sleep.”

“Fine, I’ll do all the work,” he purred, in a truly misguided attempt at teasing.

His stomach churned as insistent hands tugged his shorts from his hips and shoved his legs open. This had gotten out of control.

Without further hesitation, Sherlock slid John’s half hard cock into his mouth. John’s erection wasn’t the result of arousal; it was a combination of sleep and physical stimulation, and this was all wrong. He didn’t want this, not now.

The bile rose in his throat and he tried to jerk his hips away. Strong hands held him in place, never pausing their relentless ministrations.

Sherlock let out a moan when John’s hand twisted into his hair, accompanied by a surprised cry when the hand wrenched him away.

“I said no.”

Sherlock said nothing as John left the bed, simply staring at him, running a finger obscenely round his lips and licking it slowly with a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Different permutations of this encounter had been running through his head all day. Everything he had planned to say disappeared in an instant when John arrived home the following evening to find Sherlock lying languidly on the sofa, eyes shut.

Sherlock’s fingers were stretched out to the nearby coffee table, stroking a leather pouch that lay there. John recognized it immediately. He’d glimpsed it once before, during the two-week lull following the ‘Sign of the Four’ case, and the sight of it now gave him a tight pain in his chest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” John snatched the pouch from the table. The leather was flexible and disturbingly warm around the solid cylinder it contained. Sherlock’s outstretched hand remained flat on the table, the delicate stroking motion of his fingers now hard against the table, scratching his nails against the wood.

So this was it. This would be the punishment for his actions. There wasn’t much Sherlock could do to John personally anymore, so it made a certain twisted sense that the punishment would be through Sherlock himself. Sacrificing his own body for someone else’s torment. But then of course, it wasn’t really a sacrifice, was it? He enjoyed it. He’d been an addict once and all it would take would be one belt around his arm, one needle to puncture through the silvery, marked skin and he would be right back there again.

The premeditation of it was what made every cell in his body vibrate with anger; the mise en scene of emotional blackmail which had been set up for his viewing pleasure.

“You don’t understand, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed still, body relaxed and motionless.

“What is it that I don’t understand exactly?” John couldn’t help but spit the words.

Sherlock sat up smoothly and opened his eyes, cocking his head slightly and looking at John with an almost sexual intensity. He ran his fingertips over the exposed crook in his elbow. As he caressed the skin, his breathing grew heavy and slow, he tilted his head back and flickered his eyes closed while biting his lip.

When Sherlock let out a groan of imitated euphoria, John’s face burned with anger. He felt something inside himself snap. Without a word he threw open the pouch, the material whipping against itself with the force. The syringe inside looked custom made, bright silver in its housing, the metal engraved in a twisting configuration and the glass delicately hand painted. Beside it was tucked a fold of paper which John slid out, light and inoffensive looking in his palm.

He ran a finger along the inside pocket, checking for any more stray wraps, before throwing the bundle down onto the table and storming to the bathroom.

Sherlock didn’t follow, didn’t make a sound; his silence was oppressive from the living room. John’s hand was perfectly steady, his breathing fast but measured as he carefully unfolded the paper. The powder inside was white, tiny crystals glittering iridescent in the light. John gritted his teeth and watched it flutter down into the toilet bowl. It scattered as a sheen on the surface of the water, and was followed by the paper wrapper before being chased down into the pipes.

John slumped against the side of the bath for a moment, his head in his hands. He was exhausted; by Sherlock, by the constant struggle, by his life.

He climbed the stairs to his room, locking the door behind him. It was useless as any kind of defence mechanism, but the message it sent was clear nonetheless.

* * *

Unfamiliar pain biting into John’s shoulder started him on a slow climb back to awareness. It was still dark outside when his eyes began to flicker open. His arm was twisted above his head at an awkward angle and it wasn’t until he tried to move the complaining limb that he realised he couldn’t.

The realisation steepened his climb into reality sharply: he pulled at his wrists, trying to free them, and scraped his hand against the metal bed frame. Trying to move his legs resulted in the same restriction of movement, flooding his brain with anger and confusion. He twisted his head around the room, his eyes straining in the dark, searching for answers.

And there they were. There _he_ was.

Sherlock leaned against his bedroom door, his arms crossed over his chest, silently observing. He could have been standing there in the dark for hours. John abruptly stopped struggling against the bonds.

“John! How nice of you to join me.” Sherlock flashed him an insincerely innocent grin.

John closed his eyes whilst he gathered himself, flexing his fingers and testing his wrists against the handcuffs that bound him. He tried to get his breathing under control, tried to calm the rising tension in his abdomen before opening his eyes again.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Sherlock tilted his head and smiled at his handiwork, forever calm and calculating.

With a growl, John heaved his body in a single, futile lurch, wrists and ankles burning as the metal savagely tore into them. He was sure he could feel a dribble of blood on one of his feet, but there was no way he could see them from this angle.

“You’ve been so distant. There can’t be anyone else, I’d know. So, what’s changed?” Sherlock stalked towards him, fluid in the half light, reaching a finger to touch John’s temple and draw it slowly down his cheek. John didn’t flinch away from the caress as his instincts told him to: instead he stared into the eyes of the cold man he’d wanted so badly, searching for understanding without any real hope of finding it. Sherlock’s touch continued down to his chin, and to his neck, grazing over his Adam’s apple and pausing at the notch between his collarbones.

“You’re mine, John.” Sherlock’s voice was harsh, a disconcerting contrast to the finger still dragging lightly across his sternum. “You said you’d always be mine. My army doctor, my John.” His finger slid over the soft fabric covering John’s stomach, dipping into his bellybutton before drifting out towards his hip. John felt like he was being cut open, his organs freed and spilling out for display.

“Nothing’s changed.” It was a lie, John knew it and Sherlock certainly knew it. It hung awkwardly in the air above the bed.

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock’s hand clamped down where it rested on John’s knee, wrenching his kneecap sidewards and shooting pain up the right side of his body. “It’s alright though; I can bring you back to me.” The certainty in his voice was one of the most profoundly ominous things John had ever heard him say.

John’s stomach turned at the thought of Sherlock picking the lock on his bedroom door, arranging his body and restraining him in his sleep. Thinking about his intentions from that point onwards just made it worse, settling like acid in his stomach.

Moving back up the bed, Sherlock perched beside John. The mattress depressed under him, rolling John’s hips towards him involuntarily. He casually rested an arm on John’s hip, pushing up his t-shirt slightly. He walked his fingers along John’s stomach and watched intently as the skin dipped and moved with him. John shivered with the contact, tensing the muscles in his abdomen as he tried in vain to move away from this light spots of pressure dancing over his skin.

“It’s easy for you. You could walk away and there would be others, there would always be others. It’s not like that for me. It can only ever be you. My John.” His voice was quiet, the only sound in the room besides their own breathing and the loud rhythm of John’s own heart thudding in his ears.

He twisted his body around to lie beside John, resting his head on his shoulder and stretching a possessive leg over him.

“Sherlock, untie me.” Sherlock ignored him, nuzzling his face gently into John’s neck and laying a line of soft kisses along his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere.” John said, quieter this time, almost a whisper. Sherlock curled closer around him.

“You can’t leave. I won’t let you.” A hand pawed over his chest, tracing his ribs and running his fingers in the furrows between them, gathering fabric into neat concertinas. He laid his palm flat over the beat of John’s heart and felt it rise and fall beneath him.

“You’re so beautiful like this, John.”

With a kiss to his jaw, Sherlock shifted to prop himself above John. Straddling his torso, he looked down at him, dark eyes raking over John’s vulnerable form. Trapped between pressing limbs and unforgiving metal, John could feel his skin growing clammy while his brain frantically sorted through possible resolutions to this situation.

“I don’t want it to be like this, Sherlock. Let me go and we can talk about this.” Maybe, if he chose his words carefully, John could circumvent whatever it was that was going through Sherlock’s head. Maybe.

Sherlock picked up the silk scarf that was draped over the end of the bed, weaving the fabric through his fingers before looping it around his hand and tying a knot in the middle. His mouth quirked upwards as he doubled the knot and stroked his fingers over it.

“I’m sorry, John. You just don’t understand. Talking won’t help that.” Leaning closer on all fours, Sherlock held the scarf close to John’s face. It was too close to focus on properly, the fabric navy in the dark of the room. The knot pressed against his lips, pushing and demanding. He threw his head to one side but Sherlock lashed out a strong hand, wrenching his jaw open and pushing the fabric between his teeth.

John let out a low growl, muffled by the soft silk distorting his mouth and straining his jaw. His tongue pressed against the back of the knot but pushing it only managed to jut one of the harder folds of cloth painfully into the roof of his mouth.

“So beautiful.”

Sherlock still hovered above him, his breath warm on John’s skin. John lets out a quiet string of consonants, locking eyes with Sherlock and hoping that he might be understood without the words muted in his throat. His pleas were answered with a smile and a gentle press of lips against his cheek.

His skin was damp with perspiration, instinct on overdrive and flooding his system with useless adrenaline. Sherlock moved down his body, running his hands over John like he was a new toy, and coming to settle between his legs. His bulk pushed John’s thighs apart and tested the skin on his ankles against the vicious metal holding him captive.

John’s hopes for the situation were dissolving into an overwhelming sense of betrayal. He couldn’t guess what Sherlock hoped to achieve from this. He strained his wrists against the sharp edges of the cuffs, knowing there would be no weakness to exploit, no hope of sliding free, but unable to simply give himself over to quiet submission.

A slow hand stroked the bare skin on his leg, sweeping across his knee and up to his shorts, pushing the fabric up slightly and running a slow thumb underneath before beginning again.

John snorted loudly and pushed his tongue uselessly against the knot gagging him. He shut his eyes and turned his head away from the man he thought he knew, thought he loved.

Lips pressed against his skin, gentle and then harder, teeth nipping at him and then something entirely unexpected. The pain was different from the dull ache of teeth on flesh, it was sharp and precise like th--

Before John could react, a strong arm gripped his thigh and forced him motionless against the mattress. Sherlock’s face was the picture of solemn concentration beneath him. John let out a muffled cry, a last ditch appeal, before the plunger pushed into a syringe across the horizon of his own panting chest.

The liquid invaded his system like electricity. Sparking from its point of origin, it spread outwards to swallow him whole. He let out a strangled howl as a sensation close to the most intense orgasm of his life ripped through him and tore him apart. His hands writhed helplessly in their bonds, not resisting or straining, simply exploring the space around them. Everything that came in contact with his skin was alive.

His ears filled with the deafening sound of folding, creaking metal and the oxygen disappeared from his lungs as his chest pushed up to meet the tactile air above him. His brain was both perfectly quiet and flooded with stimulation. There was no room for thought, or memory, or emotion, only sensation.

He felt soft pressure wrapping around him, skin on skin, sending a throbbing pulse of pleasure through him. A hand lay on his stomach, stroking slow circles across the planes of skin, a warm connection to something outside the sensation of his own.

And then he was only vaguely aware of his body at all as everything melted into a blissful, translucent haze.


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke alone in bed, his head aching and sluggish, buried deep into the pillows. He’d formed most of his plan before he’d even opened his eyes.

It was something he’d been trying not to think about for a while now, something festering in the corner of his mind that he tried not to look into too often. Now the idea had swelled and was all consuming. When he tried to think forward to the future, all possible roads led to the same conclusion sooner or later.

Leaving Sherlock wouldn’t be anything like leaving any of his former girlfriends. Those relationships had been well within the realms of what an outside observer might call normal. Difficult conversations were had, belongings divided, pleasantries exchanged and that was it. There would obviously be a period of fragility and adjustment afterwards but no matter who decided to end it, things would always follow the same format. It was almost reassuring, something to fall back on, a plan to follow when emotions got in the way.

He was off-grid now. There wouldn’t be a structure to follow; at the same time, it all needed to be perfectly planned. Sherlock would try to find him, try to bring him home via any means necessary and in the Army, they’d always said that the best defence is a good offense. If he was found there would be consequences; being found was not an option.

Getting up, his head swung heavily. It was then that he noticed the dressings on his wrists and ankles. Sherlock had patched him up like a broken doll. Because that’s what John was to him, he supposed; a plaything, a possession, a mindless distraction.

John went to the bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet; a combination of the previous night’s events and the nervous tension coursing through him. As his knee rested on the cold tiles, he thought about how it used to be. In the beginning, he knew for a fact that they would spend the rest of their lives together. He snorted into the toilet bowl thinking of it now. They used to be perfect; the perfect pair, the perfect fit. Before the cracks. Resting his head on the unforgiving enamel of the bath, John thought about the first time.

They had been at a wine bar, strictly for a case of course, but Sherlock had been talking to the bartender for at least an hour. John had sat nursing a pint and waiting for him when a woman on the neighbouring table began to speak to him. He wasn’t interested of course, but he was bored and she seemed nice enough to justify a passing conversation. John couldn’t deny that she had a strange beauty to her; a strong, roman nose, a little too big for her face and her hair was long, down to her waist, becoming tangled towards the ends but her skin was perfect and her smile radiant. It turned out that she was waiting to see a business client who was late for their meeting. They were chatting about nothing, the weather, tube delays and the front page of the morning’s Metro, when John’s phone beeped in his pocket.

`Leave Immediately - SH`

When he looked up, Sherlock had already gone and John made his excuses. When he arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock was waiting for him, folded into a chair, legs coiled under him. He’d moved across the room with the intensity and feline grace of a lion, pinning him against the wall and pulling his hair roughly. John didn’t connect the two events until later when Sherlock’s cock was aggressively assaulting his soft palate to a chorus of _‘Mine, mine, My John.’_

In his room, John ignored his aching limbs and sorted through his possessions, placing the most important ones in a small pile. He knew he couldn’t come back and collect the rest, there wouldn’t be any second chances. He filled the rest of the space in the bag with a few of his favourite clothes, some toiletries and his service revolver, carefully wrapped in a jumper. His hand didn’t shake at all as he zipped the bag closed.

He wouldn’t leave a note. He wouldn’t need to for Sherlock to realise and he didn’t have anything to say anyway.

Closing the outside door behind him, he felt a mixture of peace and fear settling over him. He couldn’t go back now. He’d have to leave, have to run somewhere the world’s only consulting detective couldn’t find him, only God knows where that place was.

He posted his keys though the letter box. It was over now.


	4. Chapter 4

Compiling facts was a far easier task before emotions were involved. That said, he if hadn’t let slip, hadn’t become attached, he wouldn’t be doing this now at all.

John hadn’t been to work in the last three days. Sherlock knew this for a fact as he’d both called, pretending to be a patient, and visited the surgery himself. John also hadn’t contacted them with a reason which was worryingly out of character. No one had overtly shared his information, but the facts were obvious to anyone standing in the room if only they chose to see, instead of just look.

He hadn’t gone to Harry’s house, Mike Stamford hadn’t heard from him and he hadn’t been in contact with any of his old army friends. In fact, no one had see or heard from him. Sherlock preferred it this way. A far more interesting game. It was almost considerate of John, really.

Now all he had to do was start arranging the playing pieces.

Picking up his phone, he scrolled down to John’s number. Tapping in a 141 prefix, he called him again. His phone would be off, that was obvious, but he could close his eyes and lie back on John’s bed, letting the answerphone message play out before hanging up. He paused for a second before indulging and redialing.

He supposed that he’d seen it coming, perhaps not now in particular, but certainly at some point. Plucking a handful of nicotine patches out a box on the floor, he peeled off the backing and applied them in a line on his forearm. Whilst he waited for them to take effect, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander, musing over the possibilities of what may have happened had he not retrieved the keys to the cuffs. Feeding him, cleaning him, looking after him and keeping him happy. The comfort of always knowing where John was, what he was doing... but then, the uncertainty was the fun part, wasn’t it? He lay on the bed, running his hands over the metal bars that John had gripped so tightly and imagining the ghost of his warmth.

As the tingling clarity of the nicotine began to filter slowly into his brain, he forced himself onto more serious topics. His very own search and rescue mission.

 _You’ve had your move, John. Now it’s my turn to play._

* * *

The case would be open-and-shut; no need for him to be contacted, although doubtless he would be. It would be a homing beacon for his rogue soldier.

All the pieces were already available in the flat. It was just a matter of compiling them.

Under the sink, lay the abandoned remains of John’s medical kit. He’d taken all the interesting things; the sedatives, the general anaesthetic, and all of the prescription narcotics. Sherlock picked out a fistful of latex gloves and a syringe, turning them over in his hands whilst he considered his next move.

He plucked a fresh petri dish from the autoclave, a pair of scissors and evidence bags from the counter, then proceeded upstairs to John’s bedroom.

The room seemed colder somehow, greyer. He sat on the bed and put on a pair of the gloves; slowly, savouring the feel of the slight powder on his skin and a sharp snap of the plastic around his wrists.

Sherlock picked up the wire mesh bin, placing it on the bedside table and peering inside. He sifted through the layers of off-white materials inside; tissues, cotton wool, wet wipes, until he found it. Carefully, he picked out the limp latex sheath with its translucent liquid knotted inside and held it up to the light; well preserved, still fluid, ideal. Snipping a hole in the tip, he squeezed the contents into the petri dish.

It smelled musty yet sharp and unmistakably like John, gliding into the syringe before the cap clicked shut over the entrance. Dropping it into one of the evidence bags, he turned to John’s pillow. On the abandoned linen lay 2 sandy blond hairs. They shone slightly when held up to the light and Sherlock felt a pang of sadness that he couldn’t keep them, catalogue them. He should have started to do that earlier, documenting John’s existence, taking samples of everything substantial that made John, John. He’d comb the flat later, there would be traces of him everywhere still and then it could begin properly if John came home.

 _When_ John came home.

Most of his clothes were still in the wardrobe. Sherlock spent more time than was really necessary running his hands over the clothes, touching the familiar fabrics, imagining them fleshed out and animated instead of the lifeless shells that hung on wire hangers. He picked out some jeans and a jumper; they wouldn’t fit but it hardly mattered.

Preparations completed, Sherlock jumped in a taxi to Old Street roundabout. The night was warm and although the pubs had already closed, the streets of Shoreditch were still alive with people; falling into the road, sitting in shop doorways and heading to the local nightclubs, carrying on their lives like nothing mattered, with their own microcosms surrounding them.

He turned down Hoxton Street and the crowds tailed off almost immediately. Grim flats lined the road, emerging out of the yellow, London near-darkness. He walked with purpose, eyes scouring the darkened corners and alleyways until he found what he was looking for.

And then he found her and it was more perfect then he’d imagined.

She was half hidden in the shadows of the Post Office doorway, puffs of cigarette smoke intermittently streaming out then curling into the night. Her clothing was cheap; a top that mercilessly clung to her form and a denim skirt that grazed her buttocks. Cheap but, he supposed, fitting for the profession.No children, that was obvious from her fingernails. Almost certainly no long term partner either.

It was her hair though that drew him to her; long and ending just above her hips. It didn’t matter whether or not it was the same woman from the bar, the woman that had tried to lure John away. The striking resemblance was more than enough to satisfy.

Sherlock approached her in silence at first, leaning against the other side of the doorway and casting an eye towards her.

“Do you have a spare cigarette?” She looked over and smiled at him, a crooked smile but almost honest. Almost.

“Nah, sorry, mate. This is my last one. Got something else you might like though?” She turned towards him, putting a hand on her hip and moving her fingers back and forth over her midriff. She was making this too easy. “Fifty quid for an hour. Tenner less for half ‘n half.”

“Follow me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock continued walking up the street, leaving the woman trailing a few steps behind him. She jogged to catch up, then linked her arm in his. The sudden contact was jarring, he wanted to push her away, hold her against the wall and make her apologise, but this wasn’t about the moment. This was laying the foundations for future negotiations. This was about bringing John back, not about fleeting discomfort. He exhaled heavily and trapped the arm clumsily folded into his, bringing it tight against his side.

“Where are we going, Mister? I know a place we can go. It’s close by.”

“No. I know somewhere.”

They continued through the gloomy darkness, turning into Ivy Street and walking towards the inky darkness of Shoreditch Park. Leaving the sickly glow of the street lights behind, they fumbled through the darkness, reaching the patch of dense trees on one side. The woman’s pace slowed as her heels wobbled on the uneven ground, though they stopped near a thick elm tree soon enough.

“Al fresco, is it? Alright then. So, what’s it gonna be?”

A leather clad hand pushed folded notes into her hand, then turned her body towards the tree in silence. A puff of air escaped her with the impact before she breathed out a well rehearsed moan.

He pushed his body against her, pulling upwards slightly and grating her exposed flesh against the rough bark. Into her ear he breathed, “I want you to say my name.”

“But I don’t know ya name.”

“John.”

She ground her hips roughly backwards with a quiet sigh, whispering ‘John’ and closing her eyes.

“Louder.”

Sherlock gathered her hair into his hands, smoothing it through his curled fist and gently pulling her head backwards as she cried, “John” into the darkness. She was his, pliant and willing, helpless beneath his hands as she moaned in acted pleasure against him. He shoved a leg roughly between her thighs, parting her legs and making her unsteady as she balanced on the tree’s roots beneath her. She tried to rock back against him as he kept her in position, tight against the tree. She smelled of sweat and sex and cigarettes beneath him.

He rolled her hair in his hands, black in the darkness, wrapping it around his fist and twisting. The tangled strands slid over the leather gloves and pulled taut in his grip. Sherlock pulled, forcing her head backwards to lean on his shoulder and she smiled at him, still maintaining the illusion but with a creeping shadow of doubt fluttering into her expression. He returned her smile, thrusting his hips against her, distracting her while his arms coiled around her, passing the entwined hair from hand to hand.

She writhed under him for a few more seconds before realisation struck her. The moment she stilled, he struck, pulling the hair taut around her pale throat. Her hands flew to her neck, scratching to get some purchase on the makeshift rope that bound her and managing only snap a few useless threads of the twisted coil. Her body bucked against him, surging with adrenaline but countered with his own bulk, pushing her chest tight against the tree. Some desperate breaths escaped her mouth, quick and shallow and met with a renewed tug on the hair that bound her.

One thrashing heel found his shin and dug in sharply. It was nothing, easy to ignore and barely even registering above the onslaught of sensation across his body; the shaking tension in his arms as his elbows pushed into her back, the crush of pressure as the hair coiled around his hands and pushing the leather into his skin, the sound of snapping hair as her nails clawed at her own neck, and the dry slap of her lips as her mouth gaped uselessly.

He felt her body begin to shudder as her muscles demanded oxygen. The thrashing slowed as her eyes fluttered closed, her head resting back against Sherlock’s shoulder. He kept his arms taut, staying frozen in their embrace, through the stillness and the occasional twitch that ricocheted through her limbs. His heavy breathing was loud in the darkness and he rested his weight against her as his heart thudded almost audibly in his chest.

When the adrenaline started to fade, he released his grip with a painful creak of protest from his over stretched muscles. Without his body pressing against her, she began to slump heavily, hitting the ground as her ankles twisted under the weight.

They were far enough into the wooded section to remain unseen by anyone who may be passing through the park, although at this time of night that would almost certainly be drunks, not known for their observational skills and not reliable as eye witnesses.

Lifting her skirt revealed a cluster of bruising spanning the entire top section of both of her thighs. The bruises ranged from dark and angry to a paler yellow, barely visible in the gloom. The time range of some of the bruising would certainly correlate, saving him the task though he couldn’t help but feel a vague pang of sadness for her; critically flawed in life and perfect in death, a pawn in a lovers’ rift. He didn’t regret it though, not for a moment.

Sherlock pulled one of her legs aside to lean against the rough bark, then took the syringe from his pocket, pulling off the cap with an echoing click. He squeezed a few drops of the viscous liquid onto the bruised flesh. He watched it pool there, fascinated by the way it moved against her skin. It seemed to fill his vision, and he had to blink hard to clear it before pressing her thighs together again to disperse the fluid.

Her head rested against one of the tree’s roots at an unnatural angle and when he tugged her jaw open slightly, a last puff of breath escaped her lips. He pushed the syringe into her mouth until he felt it butt against her soft palate, then carefully depressed the plunger to deposit the rest of the sample. When he withdrew the syringe, Sherlock saw a single drop clinging to the end of the nozzle. He dabbed it onto the corner of her mouth and smeared it across her lip with a dramatic flourish.

As a finishing touch, he pressed two of John’s hairs into the fabric covering her breasts and stepped back to look at the scene. It wasn’t perfect, but then it wasn’t supposed to be. There would obviously be some degeneration of the sperm sample but Anderson almost certainly wouldn’t be able to place it within a day of the crime itself. The angle of the bruising around her throat would be wrong. So many things that could be obvious on further inspection, but that’s what they needed him for and without his help, their incomplete evidence gained from their sub-par observational skills. would be all they had to work with.

He didn’t hide the body. What would be the point? He walked through the park and slipped out the gate through the shadows with a smile.


	6. Chapter 6

The room was grey, battleship grey. It was compact and relentlessly functional with its small recording unit on a bolted down table with a pair of chairs, all shades of grey. Such a fitting setting.  
Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table while he waited.

When John was brought into the small room, he shuffled over to the empty chair, his leg dragging and uncooperative beneath him. He had dark shadows under his eyes, stark against his pallid complexion. His lips where a thin line across his face and he exuded anger. He sat down in the opposing chair with a thud and glowered at Sherlock with an intensity he’d never seen before.

“I can only give you five minutes.” Lestrade said, with a lowered brow. His expression was confused; he’d clearly tried to interpret the situation using the data available to him and failed miserably, as intended. To him, Sherlock was the rescuer, the salvation, bringer of clarity to this messy situation that they’d found themselves in. On some level, that was probably true, Sherlock thought.

Lestrade closed the door behind him, leaving them alone. John’s hands were splayed out on the table between them and he stared at them. The silence stretched out between them, filling the room entirely. Sherlock stared at the hands on the table, John’s hands, John.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch them, to feel the rough skin beneath his fingers again.

“Don’t.” The word shattered through the silence and John looked up at Sherlock for the first time. He looked tired and not just from a night in the holding cells, a more long-term tiredness that told of months of boiling emotional turmoil, stretching across the lines in his face and spilling out to encompass him. The had a few more lines around his eyes.

He’d been brought in the previous evening, traced to a B&B in Padstow when he’d used his credit card. The last week had been spent hiding out in most of the cheap accommodation available in central London; always trying to stay one step ahead of Sherlock, totally unaware that Sherlock wasn’t on his track at all. He’d left London to throw Sherlock off the scent, not realising that he was strengthening the case against himself. In an effort in secrecy, he had managed to avoid seeing anyone he knew, conveniently destroying any chance of a concrete alibi. Sherlock didn’t know how much he’d been told about why he was there, how complete a picture he had yet. He ached to find out, to start playing his cards, to win his prize.

John gathered himself, looking fragile and broken for just a moment before the soldier’s mask slipped down into place. “So, you’re here.” John muttered to himself; it was a statement that wasn’t intended for Sherlock. John half smiled, a pained movement that pulled his cheeks taut and furrowed his brow. “Are you going to get me out?”

It was all there, written across his features; his little escape, hiding out, and being dragged back; brought home. But he didn’t know. Not yet.

Sherlock remained silent and still while observing John, before uttering, “Go on.”

John eyes shifted around the room for a moment anxiously before settling at Sherlock’s shoulder, “Look, they’re saying they have some evidence against me. DNA, apparently.” He shook his head unconsciously, “It’s not mine. It can’t be mine. Lestrade is going to get them to run the protein coding against because there’s just no way--”

“It’s yours,” Sherlock said, his eyes locked on John’s. He wanted to see the moment of realisation cross his face.

“It can’t be,” John protested.

Sherlock didn’t quite smile; just said, quietly, “John,” and waited.

There it was: the widening of his eyes, the tightening of the corners of his mouth. John shifted in his seat, sitting up a little straighter, as though about to offer some no-doubt-ineffectual counterargument. Sherlock was both relieved and oddly proud when John visibly swallowed it down.

“You... you can’t have. You can’t _do_ that.” His hands balled into fists on the table, white spreading across the tight skin on his knuckles.

“It seems I already have,” Sherlock answered impassively. “Or rather, it seems you have.”

“Why are you here?” John huffed out a hard breath, obviously fighting to keep his composure.

“To give you a choice.”

John actually laughed at that. “A choice.”

“You always have a choice, John.” Sherlock pushed his chair back from the table and stood in one fluid motion. “I might be able to uncover something to help your case, though I do work better with an assistant. As you know.”

Sherlock turned, and heard John hiss in a sharp breath. _Good_ , he thought, _he understands his options_ , and wondered how long it would take John to come to the conclusion that he preferred Baker Street to this. He wondered how long before John would come home and be the warm presence in the bed beside him once again.

He’d come around eventually, Sherlock was sure of it. _I’ll know where to find him when he does_ , he thought, letting the door swing shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to add another enormous thank you to thisprettywren who helped me out during my ridiculous flail. She's now owed my first born (whether she wants it or not)


End file.
